Untitled: The Collection
by Absi B
Summary: A collection of unrelated oneshots each built from a single, random, word; each chapter is a story in its own right. Lots of imaginative thinking and very loose interpretations of the title words. BEWARE- Contains HTTYD 2 spoilers.
1. Imagine

**Welcome to my collection of oneshots based on random words picked out of nowhere by my friend and collaborator GuySuperDuper. I hope you enjoy the ride, and any reviews are much appreciated!**

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Imagine

Imagination is one of the things that makes us undeniably human, one of those traits that can both fill us with joy and creativity and move us to utter despair. We use it to escape the real world with all its problems, and move instead into a one where the terrible things witnessed in one's lifetime have never occurred.

It can also be used to sugar coat a memory, to make something better than it really was. If you're grieving, suddenly all the bad memories you have of that person fade into oblivion and the joyful ones are magnified; you remember them fondly, but it's not real. Imagination can twist and misshape memories and turn them into nothing more than happy fantasies.

Lying here, staring at the sky full of white, I wish that were the case for me right now.

I wish my mind would let me shape my memories into something better, something less painful, but it won't let me. The scars I bear are too raw and not yet healed.

I sigh. "Why did it have to be this way?" I ask the mottled sky above me. The clouds twist before my vision, forming the shape of my father. I glance away, looking in the direction of Berk and visualising the monument to him. The memories fill my mind and I'm forced to watch through the moments over and over again. It's similar to after the battle with the Red Death, when tortured glimpses of my final moments before being engulfed by the flames randomly haunted me. They're terrifying, and they're so vivid it's like I'm living the memories again.

The memories that are stabbing at my mind right now are the ones pre- Red Death. The memories before I was an accepted member of the tribe. I can't think of anything but my father the way he was when I was a hiccup: how he looked at me with a glare both pitying and disdainful; how he disowned me in an ultimate show of shame; when he talked down to me like I was inferior to him and unworthy of becoming chief. The joyful smile, the grateful face after I saved the village, they're not at the forefront of my mind.

As I stare at the clouds, and at my father's expressionless white face in the sky, the snapshots of the moments on the beach and my own anguished cries overwhelm me, until I turn away and bury my face in the mossy ground of the outcrop. I make a fist and pound at the ground, yelling into the greenery as I beat out my emotions. After a while my yells fade away into a silent screaming, my mouth contorted and my fists still weakly hitting the moss. I'm not even sure of my emotions anymore; they just whirl around and erupt from within me randomly and without cause.

I let my muscles slacken and I fold into the ground, all of my anger gone. I'm spent after the last few days, what with all that's happened, and I just want to be alone and think of my father and let the painful memories turn into happy reverie.

The numb silence is broken by a roar, and I reluctantly submit to its call and roll over. It sounds like Toothless; and I'm right- a few seconds later he comes bursting through the clouds, quite out of control, and heading for a crash landing right next to me. This thought of being crushed by a huge dragon finally galvanizes me into action, and I scramble to avoid the tumble of midnight wings and leathery protrusions. Toothless touches down with a rumbling thud, the precarious rock formation trembling, and rolls into a whimpering ball of embarrassment.

I dash a hand across my eyes to make sure there's nothing there before saying teasingly, "Hi, Toothless," knowing full well that he can't fly well with the tail I modified to let him fly on his own. I think it's because I can't make the tail fully operated by him (he wouldn't let me), so it's just stuck open and he can't turn and control his descents as well as he normally can. "I think you still need to work on that landing."

He looks at me, wide- eyed and curious, before bounding towards me enthusiastically. In the split second it takes for me to realise what's about to happen, Toothless has already covered the distance between us; I barely take a single step before I'm sent sprawling by a playful swipe of his paw. He looms over me, the dark and imposing silhouette mostly ruined by the dilated pupils and Toothless smile, before snaking his tongue from his mouth and attacking me with his saliva. My flying suit is covered in the viscous slime, and my hair is nicely gelled and smells of fish. When he's done, I roll on the mossy ground to try and remove some of the gunk before stumbling to my feet and wiping at my suit, sending globs of spit flying in all directions.

"You never get tired of that, do you?" I ask, and he warbles gleefully in reply. He looks at me as if to say _that's what you get for insulting my flying_, and I nod placatingly. "I guess I kinda deserved it. Here, let me," I say, moving towards the saddle.

Toothless looks across at me as I unlock the tailfin and slide onto his back. He continues to stare curiously at my face, and I guess that there's still some remnant of my angry outburst on my face. "I'm fine. Stop worrying."

It's a good thing we've both grown; I'm beginning to feel larger and larger in comparison to everything else, and I'm no longer the streamlined wisp of a boy I was five years ago. It's been a pain, too, growing. I've had to make endless adjustments to both our prosthetics over the years to make them grow with us. Sometimes I wish I could have a leg that would grow with me again, and that Toothless could fly on his own again, but then I think of how it all happened and I remember that there are things in life far more important than a leg or a tailfin.

Glancing up at the sky, I notice that the clouds have split and scattered with Toothless' passing. The image of Stoick is distorted and shattered.

I wish that my own memories were as easy to distort as the clouds. "Ready to go back to Berk, bud?" I ask. Toothless glances up at me with an air of assent. He starts in an easy lope to the rock edge, his razor claws tearing the fragile vines snaking over the edge and sending them tumbling the great distance into the sea below. He pauses at the precipice, and I watch the vines fall in slow motion before silently splashing into the water. I feel like I should be terrified, but all I can feel is this exhilaration and the anticipation of a breathless flight. The colossal drop doesn't worry me in the slightest anymore; I've got wings now.

I'm still watching the frothing sea below me when the blue suddenly whips through my vision and the air forces my eyes shut and whips my hair madly about my features. Without warning I am flying, and the sun bursts through the scattered clouds and heats my suit with its warm glow. I tilt my covered head up to the sun and bask in its life- giving light, and I don't know what else could make me happier; I _love_ flying. The blasting wind prevents conversation and chills my hands, and I can't count how many times I've been soaked by a sudden rainstorm in the middle of a long journey, but all those downsides fade into insignificance when I consider the thrill of soaring through the clouds and going where no Viking has ever gone before

I push open the tailfin and urge Toothless upwards, yelling with glee as he effortlessly powers into the clouds. His beating wings churn the clouds up into a fluffy frenzy, sending wisps flying everywhere and destroying the things which can capture so many imaginations and send people soaring into a new world; that is, until the wind snatches the clouds from their view and whisks them away to catch the eye of some other creature.

We pull above the clouds into the endless blue yonder and Toothless drops a little to hover at the top fringes of the white masses, beating the perceived cloud faces and identities into new shapes. I imagine the face of my father, ghostly white, staring down at me from the heavens, and realise how apt that depiction of him is now.

I yell randomly, "Get those clouds, Toothless!" and he looks at me in slight confusion but still attacks the harmless clouds anyway, beating his wings furiously to drive them away and even blasting a few with vicious fireballs for their cowardly retreat.

"Yeah!" I yell, and Toothless warbles happily. "We got 'em, bud."

I don't even know why it feels so good to kill the clouds like that. I guess it's just my way of visualizing how I want my memories to just be blown away by an errant gust of wind.

Toothless hovers in the now- empty patch of sky for a few moments before pulling up and gliding to the patch of clouds he chased off. We soar higher on an updraft, then I crouch down low to Toothless' neck, then his wings fold and we plummet down through the white and into view of those below. The cloud passes us with a whoosh of moist air, catching on the leading edges of Toothless' wings as we flash by. Bursting through, I can see the vista of Berk and the wide ocean spreading far and wide; the earth curves gracefully away as we plummet even more quickly and the image blurs. My whoops are whipped away by the wind almost as soon as they leave my mouth, and Toothless waits until the last second to spread his wings and swoop upwards once more, tail sending up a spray of rainbow droplets as we pass.

We still travel at a breakneck speed up to the Isle, shooting up and around the houses to come to a sudden stop and land atop the hill leading up to my house and the Great Hall. It's still strange for me to think of the chief's house as _mine_, because I don't really feel worthy. I'm still a kid at heart, and I've never wanted to have to stay in the village and help out with their everyday and banal arguments. I knew I would have to step into my father' shoes one day, but I actually wanted to live a little before I was grounded. There's been a little time between chiefs, since the village is so intent on rebuilding itself there isn't much to argue about besides wood rations; and anyway, everyone's been a bit kinder to me since my new status wasn't exactly a planned one. I'm relishing my freedom while it lasts.

We stand, graceful living statues, surveying our people as they bustle busily hither and thither carrying planks and other building materials. This is one of the first times that I actually feel like the chief of Berk, standing atop this hilltop and looking placidly across the village and out to sea. I feel like this is where I _belong_. All the exploring has been amazing, and I've discovered things no other Viking would ever have had we not befriended the dragons. I even found my mother, and she's right here with me, helping me to become the chief my father would have wanted me to be.

My father. The only thing that's wrong with this image. It shouldn't be me standing here as chief of the village. I should be standing here alongside my father, learning the ways of chiefing and not just being thrown into the deep end with nobody to mentor me.

I glance over at Toothless, who is looking curiously at the huge statue of my father currently being carved into the rock at the top of the Great Hall. I wonder absently how I will be celebrated after I die, but the thought passes after a moment. I intend to live far longer yet.

Instead of commenting on the statue, I ask, "Do you remember what you did, bud?"

He makes to shake his head softly, then stops and inclines his head fractionally./

"You... do... remember?"

He looks away from me, ashamed, as I remind him of the thing that he's obviously been trying to forget. I walk up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. His green eyes flicker upward to meet mine, just as green, and they hold this sadness which is untenable to me. It's strange to think that just a few years ago Toothless would have gladly blasted my father into a bloody pulp- indeed, the image of him looming above my father with the flammable gases building up in his mouth ready for a spark is still just as vivid in my mind as it was in reality; now, he's responsible for all that's happened and it's destroying him.

I just wish he would let me in to help him.

"You want to go flying?" Another slight inclination of the head. I slip my feet into the well- worn stirrups and push open the tailfin, still well- oiled and in perfect condition despite five years of daily abuse. It flutters in the slight breeze that springs up as Toothless spreads his wings and then whips madly as he launches us skyward.

I think he's happy about flying because this way he doesn't have to show me any emotion. His face is turned steadfastly to the wind, and he doesn't look round to make that familiar silent conversation that he usually does.

Toothless flies so fast that I barely have any breath with which to speak to him before we plummet in a dizzying vertical drop; I see the ground level rush by and panic, until I realise he's brought us to a perfect halt centimetres above the smooth basin of the Cove. His claws touch gently down onto the mossy earth, carefully avoiding his drawing which still remains after so many harsh winters, and I slide off his back and adjust my prosthetic accordingly.

"You can't just keep shutting me out like this, bud," I tell him. "I don't know how much you remember, but I didn't mean what I said back then."

* * *

My father, the one object of solidity and steadfastness which had stood for every one of my years and never wavered, had shown his true love for me in his one ultimate sacrifice. I saw the huge shape of my father, cruelly struck down by my best friend so that I might live to defeat Drago.

I hear his laugh, his cruel, piercing laugh, and the thin thread of reason which has been tying me to sanity suddenly snaps and I lash out senselessly- "Get away! Get away from him! Leave, now! Go!"

Toothless looks affronted, the alpha's control over him dissipated and his pupils the normal dilated and kind shape. He turns uncertainly to go, then moves once again towards the shape of my father.

"No! Don't touch him!" I forcibly shove at his snout; he can't come near me or my father.

"Hiccup," my mother says, and I turn to see the silent tears sliding down her cheeks. Astrid runs up, and I can't keep up my own Stoick facade anymore and I just collapse onto his broad chest and begin to sob, chest heaving as his never will again. I feel an arm slipping around my shoulders and gently pulling me into an embrace; I baulk and grab at my father's muscular arm instead, fighting against the attempted comfort. His skin is already turning cool from the harsh breeze that has sprung up, and it no longer feels like my father, but I can't let go. I can't let anyone else touch me- or him.

Toothless is still hovering nearby, eyes wide in wonder and evidently holding back. Suddenly Drago surges past me and snatches at his harness; sliding onto his back, he roughly forces open the tailfin and slaps Toothless to get him airborne. Eventually, Toothless has to give in and take to the sky; Drago's aiming his dagger at me.

I just sit there, paralyzed, and let Drago take Toothless.

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I blink and open my eyes to see the dark shape of my best friend silhouetted against the high cliffs of the Cove. He's back now, and that's all that matters.

I understand that now; I just need to convince Toothless.

He's looking at me with a gaze that seems almost pitying.

"I don't want your pity," I tell him, and his eyes take on that same look as they did on the beach. I instantly feel stabs of guilt, and try desperately to talk myself out of it. "Look, Stoick… well, you know. I was just acting without thinking. He was just lying there and you were the first thing I could blame and I lashed out. You're not to blame. I know that… thing… was controlling you, that Drago's monster made you do it, but back then all I could see were your pitiless and cruel eyes and it was suddenly all your fault. I don't know where your parents are, but I hope they didn't leave you as a kid then just as you get reunited the other one goes and sacrificed himself for you. Gods, what a messed up family I have. We can never stay together, and the moment we're whole again something happens to tear us apart. The first time it was Cloudjumper taking Valka, and now this."

Toothless nudges me with his nose as if to say, I know, and I become curious. "I wish you could tell me where your parents were. Maybe then we could go find them and I could see more Night Furies." At this, Toothless looks down at the ground and begins to draw small circles in the dirt. It takes me mere moments to realise what he's doing.

"They're…?" I don't even have to finish the sentence before he nods once, stoically, and turns his gaze back up to me. His bleak appearance has disappeared, to be replaced by strength and defiance.

I wish I could look like that. I wish I could just stand up to my father's death like Toothless does. I wish I could be braver, stronger, better. There are so many things Toothless is that I'm not.

I've wished to fit in, to be a better Viking, innumerably many times. But I don't think I've ever wished for something more, than wanting to be able to be strong for my father. He's always been my role model, and I've always disappointed myself and him because I could never live up to be half of what he was.

My father was a great man; no Berkian would deny the fact. He was everything a chief should have been- strong, decisive, sympathetic. I wouldn't call myself strong, even after five years of daily dragon riding and the occasional hard- fought victory in a dragon race; I think I'm decisive but my decisions are never right, and right now I know all too well how my bad decisions can affect those around me in the worst way possible; and I don't know everyone in the village well enough to be able to sympathise with all of them. Even though I've been accepted for five years, there's still the sixteen that I was shunned and I had next to no valuable interactions with any villagers at all. I've got a lot of catching up to do before I can socialise like my father.

To be honest, I don't think I'm ever going to get rid of my awkward social ineptitude. I'm not sure how well that bodes for my future filled with social interaction. Just another way I can't be like my father, I suppose.

It strikes me how different my father and I are. I'm my mother's son, and I think the lack of resemblance to him is what made him disown me somewhat. The only way I redeemed myself was by befriending Toothless and saving the village. Before then, he was always such an awful father. I'd walk by him with my head hanging low, wallowing in the knowledge that I could never be anything but a disappointment to him. He would shout at me and call me a fool and curse the gods whenever I erred (which was every single day- he would find fault in everything I did), asking them why he had been burdened with me. I went to sleep every night in the hope that maybe tomorrow would draw the first word of praise for me from my father's lips.

Just thinking of the way he treated me feels so wrong, but I don't know if I can deny those thoughts because they are the memories that have been attributed to my father for three quarters of my lifetime. I can't pretend my father didn't hate me just because he's dead.

Maybe I should remember Stoick the way he deserves to be remembered. As my father. As my dad. Exactly the way he was, faults and all.

Before, I never believed I could even come close to the chief my father was. I always thought my father was going to pass on the title of chief to another relation whom he felt was more Viking- like. Now, I feel I have a little more of a fighting chance. Not much, but I think there's a little faith within me somewhere.

Evidently he knows what I'm thinking, because at this point Toothless pushes his snout under my hand and I rub it obediently. "Yeah, bud, thanks for the help. We both know I'd still be the village outcast if it weren't for you. Stop rubbing it in!" I add, mock seriously, when he stands back a little and raises his head regally. He looks down at me, disdainful, and I can't help but laugh at his suddenly pompous stance. "You know I won't bow down to you."

Toothless' head lowers for a fraction of a second and his eyes look disappointed for a moment before he regains his composure. "Wait there a second," I say, looking around for some materials. I set off across the Cove until I reach the sheer stone cliffs that once held Toothless like a natural prison, where I hack at the vines dangling down with my dagger. A few short strands fall to the ground and I collect them, settling down on the ground. My nimble fingers twist them into a thick braid, tying them in a loose circular shape. I then jump to my feet and pick some wild flowers sprouting by the lake shore, entwining them with the braid and sending them snaking out and around in all directions.

When it looks suitably dressed, I take it back over to Toothless, who has slumped down to the ground. "That's not the stature of a king!" I scold him gently, and Toothless' ears instantly prick and he straightens up once more. I slip my foot into the stirrup and easily hoist myself up to deposit the crown of vines and flowers on Toothless' head.

After I've placed it, I jump back down where Toothless is looking at me with the same aloof expression as before. This time the crown of flowers makes him look so harmless, and is so at odds with his posture and expression, that I fall into hysterics. It's only made worse when Toothless crosses his eyes trying to figure out what's on his head and I collapse onto the ground, breathless. When he gives up looking and shakes it unceremoniously off, the makeshift crown landing with a thud on the packed earth before him, he grunts in dissatisfaction, his way of telling me that I should have done better.

Honestly, is my best never enough for some people?

He then strides boldly over to my shaking- shouldered form and nudges me with his nose. I'm too breathless from laughing to form any sort of coherent reply, so I just sit there, mute, still trying to arrest my hysterical silent laughter.

After a few moments of pushing me gently with his snout Toothless bores of the endeavour, and goes to pick up the crown in his gums. He carries it gently over, eyes wide, and deposits it gently on my head.

Suddenly the laughter disappears and I'm sitting, perfectly still, on the shore of the lake. I hold back the urge to try and look at the crown upon my head, the crown meant for Toothless. Toothless looks at me and nods, then inclines his head a little. I rise from my seated position, instinctively knowing what to do, kneeling on the hard dirt with one knee. Toothless just relaxes onto all fours, but he moves forward and rests his head gently on both of my shoulders in turn. Moving back, he nods gently once more, his dilated pupils meeting mine; and there's a smile in those eyes.

_Chief_.

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**A/N: Thanks to GuySuperDuper not only for giving me the first word that came into his head when I asked, but also for letting me bounce this story off him many, many times until it was perfect. Stay tuned for the next instalment, entitled Echo!**


	2. Echo

**A/N: Hello again! Sorry for such a long hiatus, but so much has been going on that I've only just had time to put the finishing touches to this. My next word was echo, so here's what I made of that. Enjoy, and don't forget to tell me what you think!**

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**Echo**

The torch flickers in the slight breeze which has followed us into the cave. The walls loom up on either side with the constantly moving light; the shadows advance and retreat with every uncertain step I take. It's only been a few hours since Toothless bounded up to me and practically threw me onto his back to take me to this place, but those hours passed by in the blur of a few minutes as I soared through the treetops with the wings of my best friend. He can't tell me what it is he's found, of course; but that makes the whole adventure all the more exciting.

I tread carefully in the semi- darkness, making a soft metallic sound with every other step; if there's anything in this cave that wants to harm us, I'm pretty sure it knows we're here by now. Toothless plunges fearlessly on ahead, not seeming to want or need any of the light I provide in order to find his way.

"Wait for me, bud! I'll get lost!" I call out, my voice echoing loudly around me. Toothless' curious green eyes appear around the corner, before the rest of his body bounds out from behind the rock and he leaps up to meet me. He sucks himself up to his full height and I stand, small and meek in comparison, beneath his snout.

"No need to rub it in, I know I'm the runt of the litter. Are you going to let me see what it is you've found or not?" He snorts derisively, then settles back down onto all fours and begins to tread more sensibly by my side. After a while, he begins to look more attentively at the walls than at the path ahead, and I quickly take the hint and begin projecting the weak torchlight onto the walls of the cave.

We continue walking for a few more twisty turns of the small passage into which Toothless has led me, before it opens out into a slightly wider section; this time, when I train my feeble flame on the walls, I see something more than just endless grey expanse.

On the wall I can see a huge dark shape daubed crudely with glowing yellow eyes staring at me. The draconian shape leads me to think that it represents, well, a dragon, and a fearsome one at that. Its wings are spread wide, and I can also make out some small brown figures cowering in its shadow. These figures are not so vague or crude, and I can make out every detail of their faces: the bushy and well- groomed beards, the fluffy sheepskin vests and the distinctive horned helmets which mark the characters out as Vikings. I fancy one of them looks a little like some of the villagers I know; perhaps these people are their ancestors? Perhaps the person who painted this was a relative of someone still on Berk? Perhaps they are even related to me?

I suppose I'll never know, but it's nice to speculate. I don't often get the chance to think about those who have come before me, and this mural reminds me of why. The people before me are the dragon- killers, the ones who tried to make war and not peace with those gentle creatures which only stole food and fought us because of the Queen's complete control of them. My generation is the first to know peace on the isle of Berk; my grandfather and all his ancestors were constantly at war and will never know the joy of peace. I pity them in a way, but of course they knew no different and never will, so it's a pretty pointless feeling. Pity is a pointless feeling most of the time.

Looking a little further along the wall, I see there are more paintings. The black form is now more distinct; the vague, blurry outlines have disappeared, to be replaced with discernible wing and tail shapes. The dragon is still black with the green eyes; it looks a little like Toothless. In this painting, the Vikings are still intricately detailed, but this time they are terrified and cowering behind shields, weapons held out timidly from between them.

I walk along, Toothless walking beside me, noting the differences between each painting as I do so. The dragon becomes clearer, as the Vikings become more fearless. Soon, I see them standing with no fear opposite the dragon, fury written on their faces as they prepare to charge the beast.

The next picture shows their fight. The black dragon is shooting a blue bolt of flame at the Vikings, who have just hidden behind some rocks and are still fearlessly facing up to the dragon. With each picture, the likeness to Toothless becomes more apparent; the blue firebolt confirms to me that the dragon depicted is a Night Fury. This fills me with pride and confidence, because it shows I have befriended one of the most feared and dangerous of dragons to these Vikings. I think they'd do what my father almost did to Toothless.

The flame flickers and dims slightly; I grab a little more bark from my belt and add it to the torch, trying but not succeeding in keeping my fingers unscorched. It regains its previous brightness and I turn to the next mural, the corner of which is just about visible in the small pool of light my torch provides. Moving it to slowly reveal the rest of the image, I realise that this is going to be the last mural.

Toothless (or, at least, the Night Fury. I think of him as Toothless because he's the only Night Fury I know. And because he's my best friend) lies on the ground. The green eyes which once glowed with an eerie intensity are now a dull dark green instead. His flawless black hide is covered in red slashes, and a huge, gaping red gash shows a chest devoid of any heart. The dragon's heart is held aloft proudly by the Viking with the bushy black beard; suddenly, I don't want to think of this dragon as Toothless, or even as a Night Fury. The spilled blood soaks the ground below their feet as they proudly celebrate their vanquishing of the dragon. Underneath the painting are the words, 'One day'. They're the same red as the blood, painted messily and almost illegibly.

I turn away, leaving Toothless standing in that hall of horrors while I make for the exit. He comes to his senses pretty quickly, and tries to dodge around me to stop me from leaving.

"No, Toothless. I can't go back in there." I don't want to hold my eyes and mind on that image for any longer. Already it has filled my brain with images of what might have been. When Toothless' blood could really have been spilled over the pristine forest floor, his body left to the bugs and scavengers as his conqueror takes home his heart to prove himself to his father once and for all. I stare blindly into the fire, seeing his face in the dancing flames and the flickering shadows. He's everywhere, but it's not the happy and smiling Toothless I see any more; the only thing my eye sees, is what my sick mind can dream up for it.

The images flood my view, until there is nothing else I can see. It's overwhelming; I've got to get out of this crushing darkness and back into the light where I feel like I will be safe. I hold the dying torch in front of me as I start to walk quickly away from the sight I never want to see again.

Why is it that everything is always described with some reference to death all the time?

I break into a run, the torch streaming out in a blur by my side, letting out a yell of anger, pain and triumph. Triumph that I have discovered paintings which could have lain here undiscovered for a hundred years. Anger that the discovery was not what I wanted it to be. Pain from the failed discovery and what it made me think of.

I run and run, yelling my wordless cry as the first tears begin to fall. They're dragged cruelly away from me by the rushing air all around, until I finally break into the light and my sprint ceases. I stagger to a halt, letting my legs fold and send me closer to the earth. Fresh saltwater drips fall gently onto the ground, each one full of pain and suffering and memories. I want to stop crying, to stop these seemingly pointless tears, but they refuse to cease their endless flow.

I'm crying over something which should be happy, and the pain of crying over lost happiness is the worst of all.

The sunlight is waning now, the giant glowing orb making its return voyage to the horizon, as it does every day. The shadows twist and dance around my fingers as I move my hands around, trying to make a shape with them on the ground; I give up after only a few moments when I see that my heart is not in it. I am not for frivolous activities like that right now. My hands fall into my lap, and it's too much of an effort to raise them to my face to wipe away the tears.

Finally, a familiar face emerges through the blur of moisture. Toothless pushes his snout into my hand, then raises it and begins to try and wipe the tears from my cheeks with his nose. I put my arms over his head and pull him in for a hug. I need to feel his scales, his presence, to make sure that those fantasies don't become my reality. I don't want him to become just the shadows around my feet.

As I hug Toothless, his huge eyes open and swivel up to try and focus on me. I move my face down a little so that our eyes are more level, and I let myself be lost in his endlessly peaceful gaze. I float aimlessly, until the surprise of a big pink tongue snaps me back to reality. Anger randomly flares in me and I glare at Toothless, whose expression is so wide- eyed and innocent I can't help but forgive him instantly.

My gaze softens, and I look back over Toothless' shoulder to the cave that started all this. Toothless turns with me to stare at the cave mouth, dark and willing me to venture into its unknown.

"Why did you want me to see those pictures, Toothless?" I ask, and he points to himself proudly with a claw.

I don't think he's understood the paintings very well. They might have a Night Fury in them, but it is in a situation I would never wish upon Toothless.

"But… don't you understand what they were doing to the dragon in those paintings, Toothless?" I say gently, rubbing my eyes in order to obtain a clearer view of his face. His expression clearly tells me that he didn't pay any attention to the story behind the paintings, just to the fact that he was in them. He changes his glance and begins to approach me curiously, eyes questioning.

"Did I like it?" I can read him like a book. Toothless doesn't need a voice when he's with me. He nods, and I reply, "Well, what do you think?"

His reply of a Toothless smile and playful swipe are so childish and optimistic. I wish I hadn't understood the paintings like he did, to concentrate instead on the fact that he's the star. I dodge the paw easily and duck under to wrap my arms around his chest. My fingers can just about scrabble to reach the edge of either side of the saddle now; I can't reach all the way around my best friend, but I'm close. "The real Toothless is far more huggable," I say into his chest. He brings round his huge forepaws and pushes me to the ground before assaulting me with tickly claws and soggy licks.

I can't help but laugh as he gently swishes his claws over all the parts of me he's discovered to be most sensitive, and as he continues tears are squeezed from behind closed lids; but these aren't tears of despair, they're tears of happiness and fun. Eventually I sense an opening and I seize it, lunging up from my prone position to tickle Toothless at the base of his neck. I scratch harder, and I hear his soft sigh as he submits himself to my ministrations. Eventually, I press the point just under his jaw and he collapses to the ground in a bliss only a dragon can understand. I sit on the ground next to him and watch his eyes flickering under the closed lids until they open again, and there's a devious look in those eyes.

With lightning speed (not unexpected, I suppose, considering he is the offspring of lightning) he clamps down on my leg and I instinctively flinch away and try to wriggle out of it, but he's clutched my prosthetic and it won't come away with me. Rather, when I pull to free myself, I end up on my backside three feet from my dragon, and Toothless is now holding the rest of me.

"Oh, come on." He grins, and gets up with the prosthetic in his claws. He proceeds to sit on his haunches as I crawl towards him and lunge uselessly at the object many feet above me; he even emits a guttural version of a laugh at my helplessness. Eventually, he sits back down again, but not for long. As I make a lunge for my leg he snaps back out of my reach, and it's now a game of cat and mouse.

Toothless waits patiently whilst I crawl, painstakingly slowly, towards him. When I reach him, the prosthetic dangling enticingly, and launch a surprise lunge at his legs, he just darts away with a snort and goes to stand somewhere else. I tolerate this game for a while, as we're both laughing and enjoying ourselves, but I quickly get tired out and frustrated. The odds are so heavily weighed against me that I start to believe I can never win this game.

It's only the barest sliver of leather that actually helps me to get my leg back. I make a final, desperate lunge for my leg, only for Toothless to flinch away and present the various complicated, looping straps of the harness to me instead. I swipe at one of these, and just manage to snatch one of the neatly sewn loops of the tail mechanism. Toothless shies away from the extra weight, and the strap bends and stretches dangerously.

"Toothless, stop!" I shout frantically. "You're going to break your tail." This stops him instantly; what was once a fun game has now put his nice new tail on the line. He turns his head to me, and I stare defiantly back and refuse to let go of my prize. "I'm not letting go until you give me my leg back. A leg for a tail. I think that's pretty fair, right?"

Toothless actually appears to consider this for a moment before loosening his grip on my prosthetic and throws it next to my hand. I carefully reattach it with one hand, keeping the other firmly gripped on his tail mechanism in case he decides to try anything.

He stands stock still as I finish reattaching my leg and finally release him. Immediately his expression changes and I see the familiar smile and the expression that nobody could ever fear.

Fear. That's what those Vikings in that image were feeling when they cowered behind that shield before the Night Fury. Maybe we should show the people who come after us that dragons aren't to be feared after all.

"Come on, bud. We've got some history to change," I say to Toothless as I slide into the saddle, the idea of how we're to change history quickly taking shape in my mind.

* * *

Toothless' wings brush the tips of the trees as we rush by, sending up a fine mist of pine needles and clouding the air green behind us. The wind roars in my ears and the woods flash by to open out into the village square. Toothless folds his wings and touches down neatly in the centre of the space and I slide off his back, already setting a brisk pace in the direction of my workroom.

Once I push back the leather drape I use as a makeshift door, Toothless' curious nose poking through to watch my actions, I look to my right and the disorderly shelves stacked with all my drawing, painting and crafting materials present themselves to me. I shuffle through the various jars and bottles with practised fingers, pulling out the things I'll need to put the story in that cave right. Paints- black, green, brown and all the shades in-between- along with paintbrushes and empty pots find themselves unceremoniously bundled into my weary leather satchel and strapped onto Toothless' saddle.

Hooking my prosthetic into its stirrup, Astrid runs out of her house to greet me just as Toothless prepares to launch himself skyward.

"Where are you going?" she yells at me from her doorway, already beginning to move towards me.

"Toothless found something in the woods, and I've just been to collect some supplies so we can go back and explore it some more," I explain, trying to repel her so we can return to the paintings and fix them before anybody else finds them.

"Wow, that's great! I'll just get Stormfly," she says, turning to go.

"No, Astrid! Wait!" I yell at her departing back. "You can't come!"

"Try and stop me!" she yells in return.

"Toothless, we've got to go. Now," I say urgently, and he gets the message, immediately launching into the air and soaring upwards.

As we fly higher and higher, I realise we're going the wrong way. "Toothless, dive down and stay in the trees; Astrid won't be able to follow us then." Toothless instantly folds his wings and slices through the air with the speed of an arrow, the blue whirling around me as I cling to the saddle which the wind tries desperately to rip from my grasp.

When we near the trees, Toothless slows his speed fractionally, searching with his sharp sight for a gap in the trees he can utilise. Finally a space appears, and he quickly darts into it, letting the dense forest canopy shield us from Astrid.

Greenery flashes by in a blur as Toothless and I navigate the tightly packed trees with ease. My feet flicker up and down with lightning fast reactions as I instinctively correct Toothless' tail to guide us through the maze of trees. We tear through the foliage at a pace no other dragon or their rider could have matched, if they could have even flown through the trees at any speed at all; and we're completely invisible to any curious eyes above.

Toothless guides us easily through the trees until we once more arrive at the entrance to the cave. He sets down, and I take to gathering a couple of handfuls of dry twigs before entering the gloomy crevice.

We step perfectly in time, even in the darkness, silent save for the rhythmic clicking of my leg. Toothless nudges me gently when we've reached the spot, and I bend down to build a small fire. Toothless lights it with a gentle blast of blue flame, and soon there's a flickering orange light to guide our work.

I pick out the image of the Vikings cowering before the mighty dragon, and I move beyond it. It's true, we were afraid of the beasts- but that's not the bit I want to change. I move to the painting beyond, where a brave Viking is approaching the dragon, and take out my brush to cover it over. It's not a perfect shade of grey, but it's close enough to be almost indiscernible against the rock unless someone looked really carefully for it. I start sketching out my own new design with my charcoal pencil, always hidden between the pages of my journal for emergencies like this, building a scene that's so familiar to me I could piece it together on this wall without even having to watch my hand.

My fingers pull the pencil round to sketch the soft contours of Toothless' face, and my puny hand reaching out to touch him. I fill us in, my head bowed but his green eyes open and startling against the bleak background. My fingers are stuck millimetres from his snout, that history- changing moment between us forever rendered on this desolate wall.

I move on to the next picture and paint it over, Toothless watching curiously. This time, I replace it with one of us flying together. I choose the moment we conquered the rocky stacks just off the shore, blurring the background and making the moment come alive again. As I paint, the moment comes alive in my memory: the rushing wind in my face and the roar of Toothless dragged away as we surge through the stacks, my cheat sheet discarded and left to the wind, finding our way through instinct alone. It's a perfect moment, the first that was truly ours, and it deserves to go down in history.

The next painting, the final one, is the one depicting the dead Night Fury watched over by triumphant Vikings. I move to paint over it, my heart hardening, but am stopped by the soft nudge of an all- too- familiar nose on my shoulder. Toothless balances a paintbrush between his thick gums, dripping with grey paint. I step aside and gesture to the wall, and Toothless enthusiastically begins to smother grey marks all over the painting. He comes back to me every now and then to dunk the paintbrush back in the pot of paint, but mostly I just stay silent and let him do his work.

By the time he's finished, there's more paint on him than on the wall and the painting has been covered in a halting selection of swirls and streaks of different opacities. I step forward with a black pot of paint and divide the wall in two; one part for me, one part for Toothless.

"There; now you can help with the paintings," I say, gathering up the rest of the pots of paint and putting them closer to the wall. Toothless immediately grabs the black pot from my hands, ignoring the multitude of other colours on the floor, and sets to painting with vigour. I take a more cautious approach, aware that there are not endless walls on which I can paint here. I replace the dead Night Fury with the Red Death, plummeting down towards the ground followed closely by the black smear that represents Toothless and I. The mountain rises out of the rock, an ominous backdrop to the epic battle being waged before it. I paint it carefully, detailing the dragons as best I can, filling the harbour in the foreground with hordes of sinking and burning Viking ships and enraptured men, before titling the piece 'Battling the Red Death'.

When I look up from my work, having been so preoccupied that I never even stopped once to take a glance at the wall next to me being decorated by the huge reptile, I find that a large black smudge has been daubed on the adjacent wall, and Toothless is just picking up some green paint.

I say, "That looks a little like a self- portrait, bud," and he warbles happily and splashes some more paint at the wall. I move on past him, painting another black line a way along to give him some space (and also partly so I can avoid his constantly swishing tail) and beginning to scratch out a village scene. I paint the houses, gaily coloured, against a backdrop of a rare cloudless sky; I paint dragons swarming everywhere: over the houses, draped lazily on the grassy knolls, sunning themselves on convenient rocks. Lastly, I paint myself, my father and Toothless standing proudly in front of our hut, before naming the painting 'Peace on Berk'.

Toothless' painting is coming along well. The black smudge now has a more defined shape, with some ears sprouting unevenly from either side of the top and some green circles painted on, soon to become eyes. He nods proudly at his work, looking down at his paws as he tries to manipulate the brush to paint the black pupils on the green. I watch as he carefully dabs black to build up the eyes that are so familiar to me, smudging it a little with the side of his paw. I climb onto his back for a moment, balancing myself upon his neck to reach above the painting and scrawl 'Toothless' in hasty charcoal strokes.

Clambering back down, I write our names, the date, and the words, 'You don't have to kill them' on the wall at the end of our series of paintings, before settling down by the fire and watching Toothless go at his work whilst I feed it slowly.

The minutes, then hours, tick by; Toothless still clutches the paintbrush doggedly, aiming for perfection. When he's finished painting the outline of his face and features, he stands up taller and paints with excruciating care over my hasty letters spelling his name, fixing them permanently onto the wall. I sit patiently, watching him work and making sure he has enough light by which to work. Once, I have to go back outside to find some more dry branches because our trip into the cave has taken a lot longer than I originally anticipated.

When I return, I find a fuzzy, pale shape marking the wall next to Toothless. He dips the brush into a muddy brown pot of paint, then splashes a small puddle of it on the floor. A dab of red joins the puddle, and Toothless proceeds to mix it enthusiastically, creating an auburn shade. Filling the spaces between the coarse bristles with this colour, he sweeps the amalgamation of colours in elegant strokes around the beige circle.

As I lay back and watch, I see the mirror image of my face appearing on the wall; albeit one with even more haphazard hair and huge eyes. Toothless finally finishes the painting, now barely visible on the wall since I was so immersed in watching his creativity that I forgot to add more wood to the fire, and looks expectantly at me, then at the wall above my portrait.

Understanding immediately through the communication that requires no words, I clamber upon Toothless' back and scrawl my name up high with the omnipresent charcoal stub. Once I've dismounted, Toothless dutifully fills over my lines with his own, in meticulous detail.

Standing back, both of us admire our work. All that shows something was here before us is the slightly off- colour grey we used to paint over the last mural. The new paintings shimmer slightly, their tacky newness reflecting stray beams of firelight. I gaze up at them all in wonder, my heart filled with joy at seeing this wall this time, instead of repulsion.

"I think that's a job well done, bud. Home?" I remark, and he takes one last, lingering look at the paintings before turning away. I do, too; I'm never going to see them again, and my gaze will probably be the last to set upon them for a long time to come.

We walk side by side out of the cave, the fire lighting our backs and casting long shapes everywhere; at times, I fancy I see the shadows of boy and dragon perfectly melded together, so they appear no longer as two different creatures but one sentient being. The light from the fire we left to die alone soon fades from our perception, but the darkness is only temporary as the outside light begins to seep in.

The metallic clank every odd step ceases as my feet move from harsh rock to springy grass; we're outside once more. I keep walking, leaving a few paces between myself and the cave mouth and putting the trunk of a tree in front of my body also; Toothless stops short, and turns back to give a last wistful look inside the chasm.

"You know what to do, bud," I say softly, and soon after my words cease to echo gently about the forest an intense wall of heat hits, followed by a loud cracking and rumbling and then a hazy cloud of dust.

The rocks Toothless blasted have come loose and are now scattered loosely over the entrance to the cave, blocking it off. They fell in such a haphazard way that, over time, nobody would guess there was ever an entrance here. Soon, vines and plants will cover the entrance and it will seem that this clearing is walled by just another steep rock face.

Now our work is hidden, both from ourselves and others, I feel a sense of finality and conclusion to this adventure. Maybe a sudden shaking or curious creature will be able to move aside our natural barrier; but maybe our story will lay undiscovered for aeons, until the forest is consumed in fire, the earth is scorched dry by the sun and there is nobody left to know the story of a few long dead best friends.

Even though we've hidden it, possibly for ever, I'm glad that we righted the wrongs of our ancestors and let any future explorers know the real story behind the wondrous bond between dragon and man.


End file.
